Flashman And The Dragon fp-8

by George MacDonald Fraser

  He came aboard like a vessel of wrath, stamping up the gangway and roaring, a small, round, red-faced cleric with corks hanging from his hat like an Australian swagman, a green veil streaming behind, an enormous dust-coat, and a fly-whisk which he used as a flail on hindering Orientals. Behind him tottered an urchin with his valise, and Prosser was furiously demanding the cabin steward when his eye lit on me, and he started as though he'd been stung. He kept darting furtive glances at me while he hectored the steward, and was no sooner inside his cabin than the door opened again, and his crimson face appeared, crying: "Hist!"

  I went over, and he dragged me in and slammed the door.

  "Not a word!" cries he, and stood, listening intently with his corks bobbing. Then, in a thunderous whisper: "I'm Prosser. How-de-do. We shall be bearing each other company, I believe. Say nothing, sir. Remember Ehud: `I have a secret errand unto thee, oh King; who said, keep silence'." And he gave an enormous wink, which in that furious red face was positively alarming. "Be seated, sir! There!" He pointed firmly to the bunk, and began rummaging like a terrier in his valise.

  As it happened, I remembered Ehud, the Biblical left-hander who was adept at sticking knives in folk, which was a portent if you like. As to Prosser, he seemed such an unlikely agent that I asked him if he knew Bruce in Shanghai, and he rounded on me with bared teeth. "Not another word! Discretion, sir! We must bind our faces in secret. Now where," he snarled, rummaging again, "did I put it? Aha, I have it! The cup was found in Benjamin's sack!" And he lugged out a rum bottle which must have held half a gallon. He beamed, peered at the level (which was marked in pencil), set it on the table, and caught my eye.

  "Well, Balshazzar drank wine, did he not?" cries he. "But only after sundown, sir. And then but a small measure, against the evening chill. Yes. Now, sir, attend to me if you please. I believe you speak Mandarin? Good." He seemed vastly relieved. "Then when we have reached our destination, I shall make you known to a certain personage, and leave you to your business." He nodded heavily, glanced at the bottle, and muttered something about the Lord being good to them that wait.

  "But you'll be staying with me in … where we're going?" says I. He might not be much, but he'd be better than nothing.

  He shook his head angrily. "No such thing, sir! I am known, you see, and they watch me, and send forth spies that they may take hold of my words. You will do better without me—indeed, the less we are seen together, the better, even now. And once I have made you known, discreetly, to one who, like Timothy, is faithful in the Lord … faithful, I say … then my task is done. Besides, I have my own work!" And he glared at the bottle again, while I concluded that the faithful one must be the Loyal Prince, General Lee Hsiu-chen of the Taipings. Why the devil couldn't he say so, instead of acting like Guy Fawkes?

  This was disconcerting. I'd supposed I would be dry-nursed to Nanking by some capable thug who not only knew the Taipings backwards, but could give me all manner of useful tips, and do most of the work, with luck. Instead, here was this bottle-nosed parson, who didn't want to be seen near me, couldn't wait to get shot of me, and daren't even say the simplest thing in plain language.

  I said I must have some information, and he said, quite short, that he hadn't any. I pointed out that the boat might not go as far as Nanking, in which case he'd have to be seen in my company, probably trudging through bandit-infested country. He didn't take this kindly, but growled that if the hosts of Midian were prowling, the Lord must see us through, and cheered me up no end by producing an ancient muzzle-loader revolver from his valise and jamming rounds into it, twitching towards his bottle the while.

  I gave up, and left him with a nasty reminder that sundown wasn't for another half-hour. As soon as the door closed I heard the cork pop. Be not among wine-bibbers, thinks I, and recalling that that verse ended with reference to riotous eaters of flesh, went in search of dinner.

  Well, it was all sufficiently hellish. How, I asked myself for the thousandth time in my life, had I got into this? A couple of months earlier I'd been homeward bound, and now I was heading on a secret mission that made my flesh crawl, into the bloodiest civil war ever known, on a rickety steamboat in company with the likes of the Reverend Grogpickle and Frederick Townsend Ward who, between them, probably had as sure a touch for catastrophe as any pair I'd ever struck. Stay, though—there was my wrestling wench down on the steerage deck. A bout with her in my cabin might not disperse the blue-devils entirely, but God knows when I'd have another chance. I finished my dinner quickly, and went out on the upper deck.

  We were well up from Kiangyin by now, but what kind of country we were in it was impossible to tell. The sky overhead was clear enough, with a bright silver moon, but the river itself was shrouded with fog, and we were pushing into the fleecy blanket at slow ahead, the siren hooting dismally. Traces of it hung like wraiths on the narrow promenade outside the cabins, with a clammy touch on the skin; the sooner I was snug with my giantess, the better.

  Out of curiosity I stuck my head into Prosser's cabin, and he was flat on his back and snoring in an atmosphere you could have cut up and sold in the pubs. And I was just pulling the door to again when a sudden tremendous shock threw me off my feet, the Yangtse shuddered like an earthquake, plates shattered in the dining-saloon, and faint cries of alarm sounded from the steerage deck. The boat lurched, and stopped, and began to swing. She was aground.

  I pulled myself up, damning Witherspoon or whoever was at the wheel—and in an instant was flat on my face again as a ragged volley of shots came out of the mist to port, smashing a window overhead and splintering woodwork, someone shrieked in pain, the brazen clash of a gong started beating out on the water, and the night was rent by a chorus of infernal yelling from beneath the stern. Shots were cracking out, mingled with the explosion of fire-crackers—one landed within a foot of me, snapping and sending out a shower of sparks—something hit the Yangtse a grinding jar on her quarter, and close at hand were racing feet and Ward's voice yelling:

  "Pirates! Stand to! Pirates!"

  To race into my cabin, seize the Adams, and ram handfuls of loose rounds into my pockets was the work of a few seconds; to guess what had happened took even less time. River bandits, or possibly Imp fugitives turned brigand, had somehow blocked the channel and were about to swarm aboard—that thump under the stern had been a raft or sampan, crowded with Chinese savages who would pour over us in a wild, slashing wave, slaughter and torture most hideously whoever survived the attack, loot and burn the steamer, and be off into the web of side-creeks before the nearest Imperial garrison was any the wiser. I'd seen it in Borneo, and knew precisely what to expect which is why you now behold the unusual spectacle of Flashy making towards the scene of action, and not fleeing for cover—of which there wasn't any.

  For I knew that in this kind of ambush the first sixty seconds was the vital time. That wild volley, the ridiculous fire-crackers, the clashing gong and the howling chorus—these were the war-whoop, designed to freeze the victim in terror. Our attackers would have few fire-arms; they'd rely on cold steel—swords, knives, kampilans, axes, Aunt Jemima's hatpin—to hack down opposition, and once they were on our decks in force we were done for. Catch 'em with a brisk fire before they could board, and we stood a fair chance of driving them off.

  I pounded along the narrow promenade to the after rail and could have whooped with relief at the sight of two Sikh guards on the wide stern deck ten feet below me, blazing away at the devil's crew who were tumbling over the quarter-rail. About half a dozen had reached the deck, horrible creatures in loin-cloths and pigtails, wielding swords, others in peasant dress with spears and knives, shrieking contorted yellow faces everywhere—and the two Sikhs with their Miniés calmly picked their men and tumbled 'em with well-placed shots.

  "Reload! Reload!" I bawled, to let 'em know they were covered, for they'd been about to drop their empty pieces and draw their swords, which would have been suicide. One Sikh heard me, and as I opened fire with the Adams h
e and his mate were whipping in fresh charges. I knocked over two with five shots, and with four down they wavered at the rail. I was feverishly pushing in fresh loads when I heard another revolver, and there was Witherspoon beside the Sikhs, booming away across the smoke-filled deck.

  I heard feet behind me, and there was Ward, pistol in hand. "Get forrard!" I yelled. "They'll come at the bow, too!" He didn't hesitate, but turned and went like a hare—you'll go far if you live through this, thinks I, and in that moment I heard the screams and yells and clash of steel from the steerage forrard, and knew that they were into us with a vengeance. I turned to the rail again—and here was more bad news, for Witherspoon's gun was empty, one of the Sikhs was down, and the other was laying about him with his rifle-butt. A dozen pirates were on the deck, and even as I let fly again I saw Witherspoon cut down by a gross yellow genie with a kampilan. I blazed away into the brown, and now the vicious horde had spotted me, yelling and pointing upwards. A shot whistled overhead and a spear clattered on the bulkhead behind me—and I thought, time to go, Flashy my son.

  For it was all up. God knew what was happening at the bow, but the brutes were well established here, and in two minutes they'd be butchering the coolies and cutting down the remaining crew. My plan was already formed: time to reload, down to the saloon deck or even lower, and at the first sight of the enemy, over the side and swim for it. And after that the Lord would provide, God willing. Which reminded me of Prosser, but he was a certain goner, drunk and damned.

  I came down the ladder at a race, reloading frantically, and reached the saloon deck. All hell was breaking loose on the steerage forrard; I heard the crash of the Miniés—Ward must have the remaining Sikhs at work. Then down to the main deck—I knew there was no way through from the stern; the pirates there would have to climb up to the saloon deck and come down as I had done. I slipped through the door to the open steerage, and it was like Dante's Inferno.

  A battle royal was raging round the deckhouse forrard, but nothing to be seen for smoke. Nearer me, coolies were going over the rail like lemmings, apart from a sizeable group over to starboard who were wailing fearfully and evidently trying to burrow through the deck. For twenty feet in front of me the port side of the deck was almost clear as a result of the coolie migration—by God, here were two of 'em coming back over the rail! And then I saw the glittering kampilans and the evil, screaming faces, and I shot the first of them as he touched the deck. The second, a burly thug in embroidered weskit and pantaloons, with an enormous top-knot on his bald skull, sprang down, waving an axe, and I was about to supply him with ballast when a fleeing coolie cannoned blindly into me, I went sprawling—and my Adams clattered away into the scuppers.

  No one, not even Elspeth, ever believes this, but my first words were: "Why the hell don't you look where you're going?", followed by a scream of terror as the bald bastard lunged for me, axe aloft. There wasn't time to scramble or strike; I was down and helpless, he took just a split second to pick his target—and someone shouted, high and shrill: "Hiya, Shangi! Nay!" His head whipped round in astonishment, and so did mine. Fifteen feet away, just clear of the smoke obliterating the for-ward deck, stood the tall girl, looking like Medusa. Her kerchief and blouse were gone; there was blood on her breeches and on the chain collar, and in one hand she carried a bloody kampilan.

  The old China Sea trick, in fact—half your pirates come aboard as passengers, and turn on the crew when the attack begins. She and those ugly rivermen … It was a fleeting thought, and of small interest just then, as Shangi of the axe held his hand in the act of disembowelling me, and responded with a huge beam:

  "Hiya, Szu-Zhan!" and having observed the courtesies, swung up his axe to cleave me. I heard her scream something, he shot her an angry look and a curse, took final aim at me, and swung. I shut my eyes, shrieking, there was the sound you hear in a butcher's shop when the cleaver hits the joint, and I thought, how deuced odd, that was his axe in me—and I felt no pain at all. I looked again, and he was standing side-on, chin on breast, evidently meditating; then I saw the kampilan hilt protruding from his midriff, and eighteen inches of bloody blade standing out behind him, and he crashed forward on the deck, his axe dropping from his hand.

  It had taken five seconds since the coolie barged into me—and now I was scrambling over the deck, grabbing the Adams, aware that she was still poised in the act of throwing—and as I came round, two more pirates were mounting the rail, seeing their fallen pal, and going for her with blood in their eye. I shot one in the back; she caught the second by his sword-arm, and I heard the bone snap. Something hit me a terrific clout on the head, and I was on my knees again, with the deck and the night and the hideous din of battle spinning round me; I tried to crawl, but couldn't; the Adams was like lead in my fist, and I knew I was losing consciousness. A boot smashed into me, steel rang beside my head, voices were screaming and cursing, and suddenly I was whirled up, helpless; I was suspended, floating, and then I was flying, turning over and over for what seemed an age before plunging into warm, silent water, into which I sank down and down forever.

  Nowadays, in the split second of uncertainty between sleeping and waking, I sometimes wonder: which is it going to be this time? Am I in the Jalallabad hospital or the Apache wickiup, the royal palace of Strackenz or the bottle dungeon under Gwalior, the down bed at Bent's Fort or the mealie bags at Rorke's Drift? Is this the morning I go before the San Serafino firing-squad, or have I only to roll over to be on top of Lola Montez? On the whole, it's quite a relief to discover it's Berkeley Square.

  I mention this, because in all the unconscionable spots I've opened my eyes, I've known within seconds where I was and what was what. The Yangtse Valley, for some reason, was an exception; I lay for a good half hour without the least notion, despite the fact that I could overhear people talking about me, in a strange language which, nevertheless, I understood perfectly. That's the oddest thing; they were talking in a Chinese river dialect (quite unlike Mandarin) which I haven't learned yet—but in my awakening, it was as clear as English. Ain't that odd?

  One fellow was saying they should cut my throat; another says, no, no, this is an important fan-qui, I should be held for ransom. A third thought it was a damned shame that I'd been the cause of their falling out with the Triads, because those Provident Brave Butterflies were likely lads whom it was foolish to offend. A fourth said they could hold their wind, since she would do what she pleased—guess what? At which they all haw-hawed and fell suddenly silent, and a moment later a hand was raising my head, and strong spirit was being trickled between my lips, and I opened my eyes to see the lean handsome face over the steel chain collar.

  Then it came rushing back—the boat, the pirates, that hellish melée in the steerage. I struggled up, with my head splitting, staring around—a camp-fire among bushes beside a sluggish stream, half a dozen Chinese thugs squatting in a half-circle, regarding me stonily … two of them I recognised as rivermen who'd been talking to the tall girl that first night. And herself, kneeling beside me with a flask in her hand, eyeing me gravely; she'd lost her kerchief, and her hair was coiled up most becomingly on top of her head, which must have made her about seven feet tall. For the rest, she wore a peasant shirt now, and the ragged knee-breeches, complete with blood-stain.

  I demanded information, fairly hoarse, and she gave it. The Yangtse had been ambushed by members of the Provident Brave Butterfly Triad—once a perfectly respectable criminal fraternity which, in these troubled times, had abandoned its urban haunts and gone rogue in the countryside. She and her associates knew the Butterflies quite well; had, indeed, been on friendly terms -

  "Until you had to put your knife through Shangi's guts!" cries one of the lads. "What the hell for? Why?"

  He and his friends had spoken their river dialect before; his question now was phrased in a dreadful mixture of bastard Pekinese and pigeon, which I could just make out. Why he used it, I couldn't think, unless out of courtesy to me—which it probably was,
in fact. They have the oddest notions of etiquette, and can show great consideration for strangers, even unwelcome prisoners, which I seemed to be.

  Anyway, when he wondered why she'd corrected poor old Shangi's exercises for him, she simply said: "Because it pleased me," glanced at me, and then looked away with her lazy smile.

  "It'll please you, then, when the Butterflies make feud, and kill us all," says he, or words to that effect. "You'll see. What's more, he —" flicking his finger at me "- shot Ta-lung-ki. We'll get the blame for that, too."

  "It saved my life," says she, and looked at him. "Are you complaining, you little ?"

  He hurriedly said, no, of course not, and Shangi and Ta-lungki were admittedly a pair of prominent bastards … still, it was a pity to provoke the Triads … he merely mentioned it.

  "Who are you?" I interrupted, and she looked slightly surprised.

  "Bandits," says she, as one might have said "Conservatives, of course", and added with a lift of the splendid head: "I am Szu-Zhan."

  Plainly I was right to look impressed, although I'd never heard the name. I nodded solemnly and said: "I see. You work with the Triads?"

  It appeared they didn't; she and the boys were real bandits, not townee roughs. Sure enough, they'd been preparing to take the Yangtse farther up, but the Triads had got in first, and Szu-Zhan and her gang had been pursuing a neutral policy until (here she looked at me steadily) it had become necessary to intervene. After that, to avoid further embarrassment, they had left, and she'd been considerate enough to throw me over the side first.

  "What happened to the others—the passengers and crew?"

  "They will be in Kiangyin by now," says she. "From the bank we saw them beat off the Triads; then they refloated the boat and went down-river."